I call this one “Dehydrated & Dejected”.
Running’s hard, guys, especially because all my brain wants to do during each outing is to dredge up memories of how much better and faster and stronger (and any other superlatives Daft Punk may’ve used) I was. You know, before my Achilles tendon abandoned me during the Boston Marathon and I essentially had to break up with my sneakers for six months. Since late April, we’ve been seeing other people. I tried to make it work with the ArcTrainer; my shoes had an arranged marriage with the hall closet.
Anyway, forget marathons—even the thought of a 10K seems unattainable right now. Today’s run was supposed to be that distance—six point two miles—but just on the other side of four and a half, my body was like “Know what? I’m done.” So I came home, climbing the steepest hill in the city as a parting gift, my stupid memories mocking me the entire way.
Why am I posting this? Because in a few months, I hope to be somewhere in the middle of a long run when I’ll think to myself “Hey, remember when this seemed hard?” Then I’ll laugh and pick up the pace.
